


in all the towns in all the world

by leighbot



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Chance Meetings, Famous Harry, Flirting, M/M, Non-Famous Zayn, Not Cheating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-17 03:46:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14179845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leighbot/pseuds/leighbot
Summary: “I’ve got a girlfriend, is the thing,” Zayn says, though he traces the ‘H’ in Harry’s name and doesn’t meet his eye for a moment.Harry shrugs. Some of the wind is gone from his sails but he’s done worse things in life than crush on someone else’s person.Or, the one where Harry used to be famous and Zayn never was. They meet in a bar.





	in all the towns in all the world

**Author's Note:**

  * For [longhairzarry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/longhairzarry/gifts).



> Hi longhairzarry, I hope you enjoy this! It's based on your third prompt, though it is a little looser of an interpretation than I originally intended.
> 
> To everyone who helped me with this: thank you thank you thank you! Every word of encouragement has helped me so much.
> 
> I also want to say: Zayn has a girlfriend throughout 75% of this fic. There's no physical cheating though it's possible to read the story as though there's emotional cheating. I think there's a pretty defined line, though, that doesn't get crossed.
> 
> Title from Casablanca and related quote in the story from Fall Out Boy

**[June – Manchester]**

There’s something annoyingly familiar about one of the bartenders. Harry’s not known for his subtlety but he tries to watch her out of the corner of his eye while his server is taking his drink order. She flicks her long auburn hair over her shoulder and he gets a flash memory of her in his house, in his shower, and he can’t believe it’s taken him so long to remember someone he’s brought home before. To his credit, it was almost a decade ago- the years feeling more like a lifetime- and she must have been one of the few to not try and sell the story anywhere, a damn near miracle at the time.

“If you’re more into that bird than me, why exactly am I here?”

Harry whips his head around, meeting the stern brown eyes of his date across the table. His tone wasn’t angry, more exasperated, but Harry still feels a pang of guilt. “I’m not more into- sorry,” he says, shifting in his seat. “I’m just… I thought I saw someone I used to know. Sorry,” he repeats the apology. “Tell me more about what you do, James,” he prompts, scooting forward in his seat.

 _All eyes on your date at all times, Styles_  he thinks to himself. An elementary dating technique, but one he’s somehow forgotten.

When Nick had first suggested setting Harry up with one of his friends, Harry had balked. Blind dates were weird and blind dates as an aged, out of the limelight pop star are even worse. He once had a blind date where the girl spent ten minutes trying to guess what song she knew by him. He counted eight guesses before he put them both out of their misery. Nick had spoken highly of his friend, though, and Harry had decided to trust his judgment. He figured: Nick has been a pretty damn good manager for over a decade, even after the interest slipped away. He’s definitely Harry’s best, best friend.

“Well,  _again_ … I’m a business professor at Salford and my name’s Ray,” his date says, not unkindly, as he stands, pulling out his billfold and two notes. He smiles softly as he lets them fall to the table. “I don’t think Nick was right about this. Sorry.”

Harry frowns at his empty plate as Ron- shit,  _Ray_ \- leaves. Harry doesn’t blame him; he’d been ten minutes late and has forgotten his name twice already, on top of staring at the bartender for probably five solid minutes when he should have been getting to know Ray- shit,  _Ron_ , no, yes,  _Ray_.

Yeah, he brought this on himself.

He slips his mobile from his pocket and texts Nick.  _tell Ray i’m sorry. i'm sorry to you, too. x_

Knowing that should be enough to keep his friendship safe, he puts his phone away before Nick can answer and grabs his champagne flute. He knocks it back, letting the liquid bubble on his tongue for a long moment before swallowing and standing from the table. He drops another note on top of what Ray left just in case and heads over to the bar to free the table to turnover. He settles onto a stool, elbows on the bar as he pulls out his phone and opens his ride sharing app. He briefly meets the eye of the girl from Before, as he usually refers to his touring years.

Some of his exes have accused him of being a slapper- some of the worst ones have even done so in the press- and he’s never felt the need to deny it. Love is love; sometimes, sex is love in his book and he’s had his fair share of it. Love, that is, though he’s had his fair share of sex, too. Harry knows what he likes and who he likes, and he’s usually charming enough to get them to like him in return.

One doesn’t become a performer if they’re adverse to the attention.

“You waiting on someone?” one of the bartenders asks him a few moments later. Harry shakes his head, his eyes drifting to the other one, the pretty girl with auburn hair he’d known… ages ago. She’s not looking at him anymore, smiling instead at a customer and pouring out a line of shots. The bartender closest to him laughs. “I’ll call Lisa over.”

“No, that’s…” Harry goes to protest but she doesn’t listen, skipping over to Lisa and trading places. Lisa’s smile doesn’t falter when she comes over. “Jack, right?” she says in greeting.

Harry doesn’t know if she’s guessing his name or his drink but he shakes his head. “Bombed at a date, so I’m just waiting,” he says with a smile. “Called me a Lyft, should be here soon.”

“S’fine. Want anything while you’re waiting? You still drink tequila on ice?”

Ah, so she’d been guessing Harry’s name before. Harry checks his mobile- the Lyft should have been here by now- and he nods, momentarily subdued. “Make it a double,” he requests, pulling out his wallet.

An hour and another drink later and Harry’s accepted the fact that even his unknown Lyft driver didn't want to take a chance on him. He's considering asking Lisa if she’d like to take him home tonight- thinks he’s been reading her signals correctly even if she doesn’t know his name- when his attention is caught by someone taking up a seat at the bar just a stool away from Harry.

He’s not Harry’s usual type, in theory. Slim at the waist and broad in the shoulders with hair curling at his shirt collar that looks inky black in the low light from the bar. He’s wearing a leather jacket and smells enough like a cigarette that Harry knows he’s probably just smoked before coming inside. It should be a turn off but it fits the man's overall aesthetic and Harry can't take his eyes away.

He’s facing away but something about the way he carries himself tells Harry  _he_  knows he’s attractive so Harry decides to take the chance.

“Hi,” Harry says, though the man hasn’t paid him any attention yet.

The stranger looks over, eyes slightly wide as if he was caught off-guard by the sound. The expression gives him a faint Bambi-esque appearance and Harry finds himself immediately hooked. “Hi?” he says in answer, brow immediately furrowing in confusion. “Aren’t you…”

“My name is Jack,” Harry lies, holding out a hand. The man looks at it for a beat too long before he smiles easily enough and extends his own hand, their palms warm against each other. “Come here often?”

The guy snorts and rolls his eyes at Harry’s wide, faux-innocent smile. “What a _line_ ,” he teases.

“Not fair! My line was ‘hi’.”

He smiles at Harry, biting at the corner of his mouth as he gives him a glance up and down, dragging his eyes from Harry’s shoes back up to his face in no time at all. Harry isn’t sure if the look is a sign of interest or if he’s cataloguing all the ways Harry might be a serial killer. Harry hopes it’s the former.

“What’s your name?” Harry tries again, more sincerely this time.

“Zayn. And I  _know_  you’re Harry Styles.”

“Oh, shit! That’s how I know you!” Harry hears at the same time. He cocks his head back and stares at the ceiling for a ten-count, willing away any flush that might colour his cheeks when he lets his head drop and he meets Lisa’s eye. “Sorry that I’ve… been calling you Jack the whole time.”

Nope. Flush is still there. “S’alright,” Harry says, motioning to his glass. “I’ll take a single and whatever Zayn’s ordering, if he’ll let me buy his drink.”

“Vodka tonic,” Zayn supplies, smiling brightly when Lisa nods and shifts away for their glasses. “So… Jack?”

“Yeah… thought she was guessing my drink instead of my name. Didn’t have the heart to correct her once I realised. ‘sides... ‘ve been called worse.”

They thank Lisa when she pushes their drinks out to them and Harry catches the edge of a napkin, sliding it over to himself. “I’m a bit legless already,” he confides to Zayn, “but I already know I’d like to see you again when I’m sober. Could I give you my number?” He pulls a felt tipped pen from his pocket and painfully draws each digit to make sure it’s legible. When he looks up, Zayn is staring at his hands with an unreadable expression on his face. “I don’t have to,” Harry adds, making to fold the napkin. “I just… if I can charm you tonight while I’m pissed- a big  _if_ , I’m afraid- then just imagine how great I am sober.”

It’s a  _move_ , of course, and it’s a move Harry’s pulled on many occasions. Slip them the number first so they can think about it all night, even when they’re too drunk to remember his name. It’s harmless and usually gets a grin. Anyway, it’s been ages since his phone number’s changed; he’s about due for a new one. At the height of his heyday, he’d been changing numbers every few months. He almost misses the chaos.

Zayn smiles. He reaches out a hand, palm side up, and beckons for the napkin. Harry passes it to him gladly. “I’ve got a girlfriend, is the thing,” Zayn says, though he traces the ‘H’ in Harry’s name and doesn’t meet his eye for a moment.

Harry shrugs. Some of the wind is gone from his sails but he’s done worse things in life than crush on someone else’s person. “I’d still like for you to have that, if you’d like.”

Zayn doesn’t answer right away but he also doesn’t turn to face the bar or indicate in any way that he’s adverse to Harry’s attention so Harry lets himself look his fill, his eyes dragging along the exposed ink littering Zayn’s arms until the art disappears under shirt sleeves. Harry officially hates shirt sleeves. Then his eyes catch sight of a blotch of ink at the bottom of Zayn’s collarbone and he amends his previous thought: he hates  _shirts_. Period.

Finally, Zayn sighs and slips the napkin back over. “Not tonight, I’m afraid.” His words have a finality to them that somehow doesn’t turn his tone cold; it’s almost like he isn’t tempted in the slightest but just surprised. It doesn’t match how long he’d been holding onto it but Harry reminds himself that he has no idea how the inside of Zayn’s head works; he just knows he’d like to keep flirting a little more, if Zayn will let him.

“Can I stay and talk to you?” Harry asks. “We’ll keep the space open,” he says, motioning to the empty stool.

Zayn relaxes and shakes his head, though he’s smiling. “You can talk to me,” he agrees. “But I’ll move over.”

Their thighs press together for the longest moment of Harry’s life before Zayn is settled properly on the seat. His legs are cold where he feels Zayn’s absence and Harry knows their story isn’t going to end with ‘I have a girlfriend’.

It  _can’t_.

“Where are you from?” Harry asks, taking a sip of his drink and letting the tequila soak his tongue before he takes it back in a lazy swallow. He knows Zayn’s watching as his throat moves and he feels a shiver run down his spine at the attention.

He knows then, somehow: it  _won’t_.

“Yorkshire. Um, Bradford,” Zayn says after a small hesitation. “Still live there, actually. I’m just in town for a mate’s birthday and a bit of shopping.”

“I’ve been a lot of places,” Harry says slowly. “Never been to Bradford.”

“Oh, you should. It’s amazing,” Zayn says in a monotone. “Better than Tokyo.”

Harry hears the hometown pride under the sarcasm. “I bet it is,” he says, as much sincerity in his voice as he can muster. “Tokyo is pretty nice, too.”

Zayn smiles. “I’ve never been out of the country, yet.”

“Yet?”

He nods and takes a sip of his drink. “I’ve got a wedding this summer that’s out in California,” he draws out the word in an exaggerated fashion and Harry wants to tell him how  _hot_  it is that he’s such a dork but he can’t think of the best way to work that in without overstepping the line that’s been drawn between them. “My mate is trying to scare me by telling me the planes do all sorts of shit like loop de loops and backwards landings but I’ve learned to not trust him.”

“None of those things happen in an aeroplane,” Harry assures him. A thought occurs. “Not…  _your_  wedding, yeah?”

Zayn frowns in confusion for a moment, replaying his words. He laughs again. “No, not mine. A friend of my girlfriend’s.”

“Just checking.”

Zayn doesn’t look at him for a long moment, staring at the wood grain of the bar top. Harry watches as his thick lashes flutter and he swallows nervously, his Adam’s apple noticeably bobbing.

Harry’s confused if Zayn’s hesitation and strange nervousness is him offering an opening or not. He’s never benefitted from hesitation so he tries. “You could still take my number… As just a friend…”

This time, Zayn does glance over at him. He doesn’t look offended and he even offers a small smile. “I think we both know that you’re not really offering it as just a friend. And if I take it…” he leaves the rest unsaid. After a moment, he knocks back the rest of his drink. “This round is on me.”

Harry accepts.

 

 

An hour later finds them on the dancefloor, a distance between them so respectable that not even the fanged paparazzi that used to tail Harry’s every move could make something of it. A distance which is eliminated when a passing dancer knocks Harry’s elbow and he overcompensates with a few heavy footfalls and an almost face plant.

“I think you’re ready to go,” Zayn laughs at him, half-carrying Harry across the dance floor. He had thought Zayn was small- had liked feeling Big in comparison- but the muscles in Zayn’s shoulders barely show strain when he lifts Harry into a seating area near the door.

Zayn is one hundred percent his type, it seems.

“Stay here, mate. I’m going to grab you a cab.”

“Stay with me,” Harry urges, pulling at Zayn hands until he gets him to shift closer. “You’re so pretty.”

Zayn’s prettier when he laughs, his face somehow becoming more perfect when his nose crinkles and the lines around his eyes get deeper. Harry would kiss him if he didn’t have a girlfriend. He wonders if Zayn would let him anyway.

“You can’t kiss me,” Zayn says suddenly and Harry wonders if he’s been speaking aloud or- worse- if Zayn can read minds. “You’ve been staring at my lips a few minutes,” Zayn explains at Harry’s confused expression.

“I don’t want to kiss you.”  _Lie_.

“Okay.”

“Not even a little bit.”  _Lie twice_.

“Okay.”

“Maybe a little.”  _Half truth._

“I know.”

“But you have a girlfriend.”

“And I haven’t consented, regardless.”

Harry nods, sobering up. Consent is really big with him- too many of his friends have messed up or been hurt by blurred, gray lines and he’s never allowed himself to act in any way that gets close to those lines. Straight, ruler-drawn lines separate him from missteps.

“Stay here, while I try and get you a cab.”

"Y'can't," Harry sighs. "My Lyft driver didn't show."

"There's gonna be a few more good ole fashioned taxis," Zayn says before he's quickly leaving.

“If I were a pop star still, I would have a car here,” Harry mumbles to himself, purposefully not watching Zayn’s arse as he walks away. “ _If I were a pop star still_ ,” he repeats in a melody, making up a few more lines to distract himself while Zayn’s away.

“I don’t miss it,” he says when Zayn returns.

“Got you a cab, it’s waiting out front. You ready, babe?”

Harry shakes his head. “Listen, wait. I don’t miss being a pop star,” he says.

“You’re always going to be a pop star,” Zayn replies. “It’s who you are. Once you’re famous, you’re always famous.”

Harry frowns. That’s not true but he doesn’t think Zayn knows he’s lying and he doesn’t want to be the one to point it out. Harry’s not famous, not anymore. “I don’t miss being actively a pop star, then,” he compromises. “But I miss singing. I loved singing.”

“So, sing then,” Zayn says, lifting one of Harry’s arms and pulling it over his shoulders. “Up, c’mon.”

Harry could probably walk on his own, he’s ninety percent certain, but Zayn smells so good- like cigarettes and shitty cologne that could only mix well on someone as beautiful as him- and looks even better and it’s nice, being manhandled in a way. Zayn’s gentle, like he’s done this for mates before, and Harry sighs as they move.

“Last chance for my number,” he says once they’ve gotten outside and he slips his arm free. He figures third time might be the charm, though he isn’t truly holding out hope. “Going once… going twice…”

“Bye, Harry,” Zayn says, shaking his head and smiling. “It was nice meeting you.”

Harry nods. “You, too. I’ll see…” he hiccups “... see you around.”

His brown suede Chelsea boots get in his way as he walks, and he trips over nothing just before the kerb. A bouncer grabs him before he falls, but his head knocks hard against the man’s chin when he tries to stand. “Thanks, mate,” Harry gasps, patting at the stranger’s hand before he’s standing straight again and ducking into the backseat of the black taxi cab. “Did Zayn see?” he starts to ask but the door is closed on him and he can’t figure out how to turn his head.

“Where to?”

“My house is haunted by Dick Turpin.”

“Cheers, mate. Where to?”

“Hampstead,” Harry answers with a sigh. He hopes that horse is quiet tonight. He wants to sleep for a year. “Get us to the Spaniard’s Inn and I’ll get you the rest of the way, please.”

“Got it.”

He registers the cabby looking up the Inn and plotting it out on the map and then he promptly passes out.

 

 

 

**[August – Los Angeles]**

“Nice day for a wedding,” Nick says as he pulls open the curtains and lets in the sunlight. “Not sure how white it’ll be, considering both of ‘em have had you.”

Harry’s unimpressed and he hopes it shows through his sleep mask. “I’m not going.”

“Sure you are. You flew all this way. Wasn’t just because you missed your dusty LA home.”

“Nick, c’mon.”

“Harry, c’mon.”

“I’m not going!” He pushes his mask up his face so it tangles in his curls. He knows he looks like an angry puppy when he’s upset but he’s thinking the sleep-deprivation will add some gusto to the expression.

Undeterred, Nick nods. “Okay. I’ll grab your tux out and your shoes. Which ones were you wearing?”

Harry sighs and pulls his pillow over his face. Maybe if he suffocates himself, Nick won’t make him go.

“I’ll give you a pink lolly,” Nick cajoles. “Or I’ve got some Turkish Delight.”

“Liar, you’re on a diet.” His mouth is dry and the pillow against his lips isn’t helping.

“’S why I haven’t eaten them meself yet.”

“Why do I have to go to this?”

“Everyone wants a pop star at their weddings.”

“It’s not like I’m performing.” Nick’s suddenly strangely quiet and Harry peeks out from underneath the pillow. “Nick?”

“So, which shoes?”

“Nick!”

“You’re not performing, but I made you look,” Nick says, tugging away the pillow and tossing it aside. “I specifically never had children for this exact moment but don’t think I haven’t pulled your sorry arse out of bed on more than one occasion.” His hands are cold when they wrap around Harry’s bare arms but his grip is firm and soon Harry finds himself with the choice to step out of bed or fall flat on his face. Though it would be nice to bring Nick down with him, his back has been bothering him more than normal lately and he can’t risk the injury.

“I’m up, I’m up,” he says, getting his feet under him properly. He’s not naked, though Nick’s seen that plenty of times now he’s stopped caring if he were, but his thin boxers do nothing to protect him from the cold in the morning air. “Get me a shirt, please.”

Nick hands over a jumper from a chair near Harry’s bed and he pulls it over his head quickly.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now let’s start getting ready.”

Harry grumbles though they both know that Nick’s already won.

“Breakfast first?” he asks, trying to leave this argument with some of his dignity.

“Bagels on the table, love,” Nick says as he walks into the large wardrobe to fetch Harry’s suit.

He can only stretch out a bagel for so much time, he thinks to himself. He also isn’t hungry in the slightest. Sighing with defeat, he pulls the jumper back off and steps out of his boxers. Nick stays gone just long enough for Harry to step into the shower and there’s a towel waiting for him when he’s done. He lets himself be dressed like a doll, wondering to himself the entire time which ex it will be harder to see get married: the girl he dated for four years or the girl he was married to for eight months. Either way, he knows he has to go to the wedding- his fame may have faded but all anyone can talk about this season is the wedding of Harry Styles’ Exes, as if they’re battling it out for the win.

And the fact that he truly, genuinely cares for Arisa and Meghan helps, too. He didn’t know how to feel when they got together a year after Meghan left him but he’s reminded of his own thoughts months ago in a bar with a pretty boy: love is love (is love is love). He’s happy to go to the wedding. Eighty percent happy.

“Do they have to pay me royalties since I’m practically sponsoring the wedding?” he bitches as he pushes back his fringe, knowing Nick won’t hold it against him.

“I  _wish_ … my exes get married all the time to each other and no one has ever paid me a dime.”

“Well, you weren’t once a world famous pop star with fifty million records sold and three Grammy nominations-“

“-zero wins-“

“and zero wins,” Harry agrees. “But that is probably because my manager didn’t sleep with the right people.”

“Aye. I’ve slept with many people, not one of them has been right so far.”

Harry laughs, their familiar routine distracting him from the day ahead.

“I’ve got complete faith in you,” Nick says, smoothing the lapels of Harry’s jacket. “Chin up, pop star. Don’t let the world see you cry.”

 

 

It’s only a few hours later, when Harry has counted fifteen pitying “and how are  _you_ ” greetings and his undershirt is soaked with sweat from the Pasadena heat, that he sees a familiar swatch of dark hair at one of the outlying tables. He’s so distracted that he walks away from Alexa mid-sentence. He comes around the far side, still not believing what his eyes are seeing until he’s a step away from Zayn.

“Hi.” Wow, he’s  _got_  to work on his opening line.

Zayn doesn’t seem surprised to see him. “Jack, right?” he asks, a sexy smirk tilting up the corner of his mouth as he takes the piss. Harry laughs briefly, feeling like the breath has been knocked out of him. Zayn looks  _good_ , a little extra weight on his frame since June that fills out his cheeks nicely and sets off the new hairdo, long in the middle and close-shaven on the sides. There’s no hint of cigarette smoke from where Harry is standing but he can detect a whiff of it when Zayn stands for a hug hello.

“How are…” Harry trails off, stepping back from Zayn’s arms after a moment.

“My girl went to uni with Arisa.”

Harry scans over the empty seat next to him. “Is she here? I’d love to meet her.”

“She had to stay home. Work. I’m here in her name.”

“Oh, that’s a shame.”

“You wanna sit?”

Harry could not get into the seat faster if he was being timed. “Of all the gin joints in all the world,” he says.

“Got the quote wrong,” Zayn challenges him, slipping back into his own seat.

“Not when I’m quoting Pete Wentz.”

“Touché.”

Harry sprawls out in his chair, one arm along the back of it and his other relaxed with his drink resting at his knee. He stares at Zayn for a long time, not even trying to think of anything to say. He can’t believe it. What are the odds Zayn would be here? Zayn, for his part, doesn’t seem to mind, just sits there and sips at his drink while he watches the eclectic mix of people wandering around the reception area.

It’s like someone is giving Harry a second chance and he doesn’t know how to take it.

“ _I’ve got headaches and bad luck but they couldn’t touch you,_ ” Zayn sings, looking at Harry over his shoulder with another killer smirk.

“Oh,  _touché_ ,” Harry mocks, pretending like the sweet, rich tone of Zayn’s singing voice isn’t causing serious damage to his barely restrained self-control. “Do you want to dance?” he asks, pushing at the lines.

“I’m not very good.”

“That’s not a ‘no’.”

Zayn sighs and knocks back the rest of his drink, the ice settling when he sets it on the table. “I warned you,” he says, holding out a hand for Harry. He pulls him from his chair and out onto the dancefloor. Earth, Wind & Fire is playing and Harry takes the opportunity to spazz out with his best disco moves. It gets a laugh out of Zayn and melts away any reserve he’d been carrying. He breaks into an abbreviated Hustle and Harry laughs, circling his arms around Zayn’s waist and pulling him close as they sway around in loose circles.

“Is there really a girlfriend?” Harry lets slip. “Just ‘cause… I wouldn’t expect anything from you if you were single. I would  _want_  but I wouldn’t..”

“I... have a girlfriend,” Zayn interrupts with a promise, his voice soft in the small space between them. “Her name is Julienne.” Harry doesn’t call him out on the hesitancy, just holds Zayn a little tighter while he still can.

The music changes, gets a bit faster and a little bouncier, but they don’t pull apart. Zayn curls one of his arms behind his own back, tickling at Harry’s hand until their fingers intertwine and Zayn’s leading them in small spins across the floor. His other hand is open against Harry’s back, right between his shoulder blades, and it makes Harry hold himself differently. He’s standing straighter than he has in years, his incessant back pain nearly non-existent for the moment.

The gentle weight of Zayn’s body against his is soothing. They have a connection that can’t be explained away by saying they met once in a bar. The romantic in Harry insists that it must  _mean_  something. The sensible part of him that controls his day-to-day activities (or lack thereof) tells him to live in the moment while he can.

“I’ve been singing, again,” he says, apropos of nothing. “You told me to start singing again so I did.”

Zayn grins, soft and genuine. “That’s awesome.”

“Yeah, mostly in, like, the shower or when I’m cooking and stuff. I forgot how much I just… love singing, even if no one is around.”

“Did everything… the whole business aspect of singing, did it really ruin it for you?”

Harry shakes his head. “Not  _ruin_ ,” he says, encouraging them a little quicker when a new song picks up near the middle. “Just… it changed for me. Became more like work. I forgot that it’s just a normal part of life, especially mine, and it makes everything better.”

“Everything?” Zayn asks, spinning them faster as it ends.

Harry laughs and slows them back down. “Yes. Everything.”

They’re quiet for a few minutes, the next song starting and their movements not stopping.

“Your girlfriend is lucky to have you,” Harry says, his voice gravelly to his own ears.

Zayn’s hold gets tighter in reflex before he sighs and nods. “It’s not going too well with us,” he admits, not meeting Harry’s gaze. “But I’m not giving up yet.”

“Was she a fan?” Harry teases, specifically ignoring the worst parts of him that want to jump on what he sees as a chance. “I could take a photo with you, make you look better in her book.”

Zayn rolls his eyes fondly. “It’s not like that, no. Although she  _was_  looking forward to meeting you. Seems like Arisa had only fond things to say about…” he trails his gaze down… down…

Harry twists his hips once he realises where Zayn is looking. “Hey!”

Zayn laughs, patting him on the back. “Just the way girls talk, mate.”

Harry grimaces, his sashay having twinged something in his lower back. Zayn notices immediately and steps back.

“You alright?”

“I’ve got a… back thing,” Harry says. “Growing pains that never stopped.”

“Wanna sit?”

 _No_ , Harry wants to say but the more he stands the worse it seems to be getting. “Yeah, let’s sit,” he agrees. He puts his hands against his lower back as they step off of the dancefloor, trying to push his spine back in a comfortable position with sheer willpower. “Why am I the one who is always being led around by you?”

“Meh, maybe you’ll be taking care of me next time,” Zayn says casually. Harry doesn’t know if he means it as a joke or if he just hasn’t realised they don’t exactly have plans to meet again.

He doesn’t ask.

 

 

 

 **[February –**   ** _le 16e_** **]**

Winter hits France in slow waves. It doesn’t get properly cold until the day before Valentine’s Day, when the thermostat registers two below and there’s enough snow outside Harry has to wrestle his feet into his Sorel boots before he can head out for a few groceries one night. With his big parka and his beanie pulled low, he gets through the entire shopping trip without a single person giving him a second glance. It’s why he prefers staying in his French  _appartement_  in Passy: people around him are too wealthy to care about him. They always have been, though there  _was_  a time when their children wouldn’t have been so distant.

Either way, he finishes his shopping in almost no time. His reusable bags are packed full and cutting into his palms when he leaves the store with enough provisions to get him through the rest of the storm and beyond. He’s not paying too much attention, trying to balance the bags in a way that his back doesn’t feel like someone is twisting a knife in his spine, and he nearly slips on a patch of ice. A strong pair of hands grab at his waist to help him get steady and something inside of him knows exactly who it is before he looks up.

“Hi,” he says, a smile growing when Zayn’s eyes widen in surprise. He’s wearing a thick white parka, black fur lining the hood and making the hazel in his eyes stand out. He looks amazing, if a little thinner in the cheeks than he had been in Los Angeles.

“Harry Styles, as I live and breathe,” he says finally, still only a breath away though Harry has both feet firmly on the ground now.

“I’m going to Portugal next month - if I see you there, I’m filing a restraining order.”

Zayn laughs, his breath instantly turning to ice crystals in the air. “Thought it would be romantic to bring my girl here for the holiday. Didn’t know there’d be a blizzard.”

Immediately grounded, Harry takes a half step back. “Where is she? Still working?”

It takes Zayn a second, his expression easy to read as he thinks back to their last meeting. He laughs again. “No, she says the snails gave her an upset stomach. Came out for some cigarettes while she’s sleeping. Of all the  _supermarchés_ in all the world…” he teases.

Harry should probably tell him off for smoking- he’s got lecture notes memorised from his tour days- but all he takes away from what Zayn’s saying is the fact that he’s free for a bit. “You want to come back to mine?” he asks on an impulse. “I can make us something to eat and call you a car back to your hotel.”

Zayn hesitates for so long Harry’s about to retract his offer and pretend he had been joking. Something keeps him silent, though. It’s possibly the memory of their last meeting, when Zayn had been warm and solid in his arms and had confided about ‘trouble’ he and Julienne had been having. He’s rewarded with Zayn’s slow nod. “Okay,” he agrees. “Will distract me from smoking anyway, yeah?”

“Win-win,” Harry says. Zayn takes one of his bags from him and falls into step as they start walking. “Where are you staying?”

“The Molitor.”

Harry whistles. “That’s fancy living.”

Zayn snorts. “There’s this lime green and gold chair in the middle of a black and grey suite. I’ve just been sitting there and staring at it since Jules went down for a nap an hour ago. Left her a note that I went to the store and got the fuck out of there. I never want to go back to that place. That chair is just  _so_  ugly.”

“Shame,” Harry says as he leads them around a corner. “I’ve got that same chair in my sitting room, I think.”

Zayn throws his head back and laughs, the sound loud in the empty street around them. The snow soaks up some of the sound, keeps it from echoing, and some flakes land on his cheeks in the time it takes him to look back down. Harry lifts his free hand and wipes one away, Zayn’s hand following his to get any that he’s missed.

“You’re a lot funnier in person,” Zayn says. “Though I guess you were always a comedian on stage.”

“Hmm, so you’ve seen me on stage?”

“I YouTube’d you after the bar,” Zayn admits. “I mean… I knew who you were but I had never seen you on stage. Besides the clips of you falling.”

“Yeah, cheers.”

“They played those everywhere,” Zayn adds, unnecessarily.

Harry remembers.

They’re at his stoop before long, both of them stomping snow from their boots as Harry unlocks the door and ushers them inside. He takes his grocery bag from Zayn once their coats and shoes are off, Zayn’s parka hanging next to Harry’s as if it belongs. It’s been awhile since someone else has been in his house.

He takes a second to look Zayn over, cataloguing all the ways he’s different from the last time they met. He’s thin all over with the jacket off of him, his jumper baggy around the middle like the weight loss is recent enough that he hasn’t purchased new clothes. His hair is green, nearly emerald in richness, and cut close to his scalp.

Zayn is always going to look cool, he realises. Too cool for the boring semi-retired life Harry’s been living the past few years.

Nodding to himself, he backs away and leads Zayn through the house. He doesn’t immediately register than he’d been given a good, long look at Zayn because Zayn had been letting him do so. He doesn’t know what to do with that information. Doesn’t want to think about the possibility that he could have Zayn in his sights for more than just a few hours at a time.

“Don’t mind Bisou, she’s harmless,” he says, turning into the kitchen.

“Bisou?” Zayn repeats.

“My parakeet. It’s the only word she knew when I got her so it stuck.”

Zayn’s eyes widen and he suddenly ducks, as if afraid Bisou is going to be flying over his head. “You’ve got a bird?”

“You’ve got a fear of them?” Harry teases, unpacking the groceries and organizing them around the house.

Zayn shakes his head but he’s clearly lying.

“She’s nice. D’you want to meet her? I can put her in her cage if you like.”

Zayn shrugs and Harry makes his mind up for him, whistling as he opens the refrigerator to store the fruit and veg in the bottom drawer.

” _Bisou, good bird_ ,” he hears from the next room and then he hears her wings as she floats into the room and lands on the kitchen counter.

“Pretty,” Zayn says, almost on reflex, though he’s still leaning away as if he isn’t trusting that Bisou won’t fly at him and peck his face. She’s curious about the newcomer, tilting her yellow head at an alarming angle as she turns her eye on him and checks him out head to toe.

“ _Bisou friend?”_  she asks.

“Yeah, friend for you,” Harry agrees, smiling when she bobs her head.

“Polly want a cracker?” Zayn says wryly, though he steps forward and holds out his hand.

Harry snorts and pulls a bag of treats down from the cupboard. “Might work better if you offer her a banana chip.”

Zayn takes the proffered treat and holds it out to her, laughing when she hops over to him and eagerly accepts. “ _Thank you_ ,” she says, bobbing and looking for another. Harry clicks his tongue and she backs off.

“She knows she’s only allowed one before dinner,” Harry says.

“This is mad,” Zayn laughs. “Can I touch her?”

Bisou shakes, her yellow feathers ruffling as she shuffles a little closer and nudges against Zayn’s outstretched hand. He runs his finger along her back without waiting for Harry to answer and Harry grins. “I can do cheese toastie or I picked up this kale salad tonight.”

“Mmm, cheese on toast,” Zayn requests, taking a seat at the worktop. Bisou follows him, hopping onto his hand.

“Not so scared anymore,” Harry notes, pulling down a loaf of pre-sliced bread and removing four pieces. Bisou chirps at him ‘ _good girl_ ’ and he shakes his head again. “None for you, Bisou bean.”

“ _Good girl, good girl_ ,” she repeats, begging.

“Give her another treat,” Zayn laughs.

“ _Bisou friend_ ,” she says, this time the phrase somehow sounding less like a question.

“Never thought of you as the pet type,” Zayn notes, calling Bisou back over to him and rubbing at her beak. “Guess I was thinking more about furry ones.”

“You got pets?” Harry asks, washing the smell of cheese off of his hands.

“A zoo,” Zayn nods. “Lizards, dogs, cats, even some chickens.”

“I’ve always wanted a goat,” Harry offers. “Just never spent enough time in the same place. Bisou stays with a neighbour when I’m not home but I’ve been staying on the Continent a lot more lately. Got some peace and quiet here.”

“Goats are a lot of work,” Zayn says as if he has first-hand experience with this. “Kind of like toddlers.”

“You don’t want kids?” Harry asks, pretending like he’s busy cutting up the toasties. “Want some tomato?”

“I want kids,” Zayn corrects. “And no tomato, please. Ew.”

“Are you and Julienne…?”

“Oh, um… we’ve not really discussed it a lot. I don’t know where she’s at with it. She doesn’t much care for pets- ‘sides the lizards- but I suppose babies’ll be different.”

Harry keeps his opinion on  _that_  to himself, passing over Zayn’s plate and taking up a stool across from him. Bisou flits between them, stealing a corner of Harry’s crust because she’s a naughty bird who doesn’t fear him at all.

“Do you?” Zayn asks after a moment.

Harry looks up, brow furrowed. “Do I?”

“Want kids. Someday.”

Harry nods. “I’m looking into adopting as a single father, actually. Not too actively- I’ve got a few things about meself I want to work on first- but soon, I think.”

Zayn takes another bite, looking like he’s lost in thought. He swallows, wipes his mouth, and pushes back from the counter. “Sorry, where’s your toilet?”

“Through that door,” Harry points out. “I’m gonna call you that car, so it’s ready when you are.”

“Trying to get rid of me?” Zayn asks as he leaves the room.

Harry waits for the door to close behind him before he mutters, “I’m just reading the cues, is all. Want some dinner, Bisou?”

“ _Good bird_.”

That’s a ‘yes’ vote, then.

 

 

As promised, a car is present and waiting outside the front door when Zayn’s ready to leave. Harry bundles up to walk him out, against Zayn’s protests, and he stands to the side while Zayn bids Bisou a hearty  _adieu_  at her cage. He comes rushing into the front room.

“Sorry, saying goodbye,” he apologises, hurrying to pull on his boots.

“It’s fine,” Harry assures him, holding out his parka so Zayn can slip his arms in one-by-one. “She took to you well.”

“I don’t typically like anything that could peck out me eyes but Bisou is a good bird.”

“ _Good bird_.”

“Eh, you go to sleep!” Harry calls out, zipping up Zayn’s jacket and pulling his hood over his head. He stands there an extra few seconds, both hands on Zayn’s hood still. Their eyes meet and he wants to say  _something_ , wants to make some dramatic statement that will keep Zayn here a little longer- whether it’s another minute, hour or a month. “Try to eat more,” he lands on, closing his eyes against the slight mortification he feels after the words have left his lips.

“Huh?”

Harry traces the tip of his finger against the sharp jut of Zayn’s cheeks. “You’re a bit thin, love.”

Zayn’s lashes are a think, inky line against his skin as he blinks slowly. Harry wants desperately to feel them against his skin but he pulls his hand away before he can, catching the corner of Zayn’s silky lips unintentionally.

“C’mon, I’ve got you,” Harry says, pulling open the door and ushering Zayn out into the cold. He helps them down the steps and keeps a hand on Zayn’s lower back through his jacket as they make their way to the car.

“You’re the one always falling,” Zayn counters, though Harry thinks he leans into the touch just a bit.

“You promised I would be the one helping you this time.”

Zayn scoffs. “Dunno if that was a  _promise_. And I deffo caught you earlier.”

Harry doesn’t answer, just opens the door carefully and watches Zayn get inside.

“I don’t like saying goodbye to you,” Zayn says, eyes nearly closed against the admission. “Thinking I’ll never see you again.”

Harry frowns. “I’m four doors away from the Spaniard’s Inn in Hampstead. My front gate has green and pink jewels on the lockpad. The code is nine-eight-nine-four.”

“Harry-“ Zayn’s eyes fly open, dark in the low lights and wide as a Disney character.

“Do with that information whatever you’d like,” Harry rushes to say. “Forget it if you’d rather. But… it doesn’t have to be a ‘never again’ situation. We’re friends, yeah?”

“I guess you could call us that.”

“Bye, Zayn.”

“Bye,” Zayn responds, eyes so lovely as Harry shuts the door. He keeps his hand on the car for a moment before he pats it twice, the universal sign for ‘good to go.’

He thinks he’s just put the final nail in the coffin between him and Zayn. That first day so many months ago, when Zayn had pushed his number away, a line had been drawn. In extra wide Sharpie. Their flirting was just for that night, _just for right now_. Meeting again in Los Angeles had gone the same way- _today, just today; spin around the dance floor all you’d like but walk away when it’s dark._

Now Harry’s crossed that line in a leap, not looking at all to see where he’d land. He watches the taillights glow red as the car slows, a flicker of hope flaring in his chest that Zayn’s telling the driver to stop. He’s got the entire overdramatic movie scene written in his head- Zayn’s warm hand on the door handle, his wide eyes frantic as he asks the driver _please,_ please _, I need to talk to him_ , the way his foot will no doubt land in a mountain of sludge on his way out.

None of that happens, of course. The car turns away from Harry’s street, following the tricky side-streets and alleys that will lead back to _The Molitor_ without having to touch any main roads. Harry watches it until it’s around the corner and out of sight. He stays outside a moment longer, freezing even through his big coat as if he’s cold to the bone.

He’s never been one for lines but he’s maybe regretting crossing this specific one; even though every chance meeting has been a one-in-a-million lucky shot, he’s never done anything to make Zayn actively turn him away before. Thinking about a possible next time where Zayn doesn’t let him talk to him, touch him, hold him… it makes Harry feel _sick_.

 

 

 

**[May – London]**

It’s almost midnight but there’s someone banging on his front door.

Half-asleep and not thinking clearly, Harry stumbles from his bedroom into the hallway. “Cold,” he mutters to himself, reaching blindly back to his door and pulling down his thick robe. “I’m coming, shit,” he says as the banging only gets louder. He really hopes that, whoever it is, their hands are stinging something awful.

It’s only when his hand is starting to pull open the door that he realises how stupid it was of him to not even look through the peephole. When he realises next that it’s Zayn who’s stood on the other side, he forgets anything else.

“H-” he starts.

“Hi, yeah I know, all you ever bloody say is ‘hi’.”

Harry frowns. Zayn’s never barked at him like that before.

“Come inside?” he tries instead, stepping back from the open doorway. For a second, he thinks Zayn is going to refuse. He looks _mad_ , like he might decide to just throw a strop right in Harry’s front garden and storm away. He’s got rips in his jeans and his familiar leather jacket on but something about him is different. He sighs and pushes past Harry to get into the house. Harry smells alcohol on his clothes and then he notices how _thin_ Zayn is, both his jacket and jeans baggy around his bones like he’s been skipping meals to have a smoke instead. Harry bites down on his lip before he can offer Zayn some food.

“What the fuck is this?” Zayn asks, tugging at the edge of Harry’s robe.

“I was cold.”

“It’s May.”

“It’s _midnight_ ,” Harry counters, folding his arms across his chest and pulling away. He’s never seen Zayn drunk, has never watched him have more than two or three drinks and he’s always been one to nurse them far past the point where the ice is melted and the glass is more water than alcohol. Zayn won’t meet Harry’s eye long enough for him to read the situation better. “What do you want?” he asks, sighing so the words don’t hold too much snap in them.

There’s no humour in Zayn’s laugh and he hangs his head when he replies. “You know, you’re the _second_ person to ask me that today. First was Louis. Think I’ve pissed around in his spare room long enough.”

“Oh?” Harry asks. If Zayn’s living with his mate…

“Wanna hear something else funny?”

Harry refrains from questioning the ‘else’ since he hasn’t laughed yet tonight. He nods. “Sure.”

“That day in the bar? In June? I had just bought a ring.”

It takes Harry a few seconds to understand what Zayn is saying. The whole time, Zayn’s staring at the ground with his shoulders near his ears, as if preparing for some wave of anger to rush off of Harry and smash over his hunched back. “You bought a ring,” he repeats, the understanding finally sparking through him. He had meant for his voice to tilt up at the end as if he’s asking a question but he can’t manage the inflection from the shock he feels as the ‘g’ trails from his lips. “The day I met you,” he clarifies. “You had just bought an _engagement ring_?”

Zayn nods, eyes closed. In the darkness around them, Harry can faintly make out the line of his lashes against the top of his cheeks.

“Did you…”  _use it_  sounds crass but he doesn’t know how else to put into words the chaotic mess of thoughts in his head. “Propose?” he finally lands on, the word coming to him as if it’s a gift from his subconscious. He can do this, he can get through this. He would rather hole himself up in his room for a decade than hear about Zayn asking Julienne to marry him but Harry _can_ do it.

Zayn shakes his head.

Relieved, Harry relaxes his arms. “Why not?”

“Because I know what I want but it’s… so stupid.” His eyes are wet when they blink open and he looks up, the shine of them bright in the dark room around them. Harry thinks inanely that someone’s put the literal stars in Zayn’s eyes. That’s the only explanation.

“What?”

Zayn’s eyes narrow as if he’s thinking  _don’t make me say it_  but Harry’s been wrong… so wrong… about them before that he needs to hear the words. When the silence stretches out too long, he sighs and tightens his robe.

“You want some tea?”

“It’s nearly midnight.”

Harry rolls his eyes and walks away from Zayn, heading into the kitchen. Too late for tea but not too late to come barging into Harry’s house with his lips looking like _that_ and his thick lashes framing his doe eyes just  _so_  and… “God damn it,” Harry says, cutting off his own thoughts. He turns on his heel and marches back up to Zayn, who hasn’t shifted from his place in the front hall. “Why are you here? Just say it, please!”

“I was  _fine_  before I met you. I had a plan for my life and you weren’t in it and now…”

“ _What_?”

Zayn growls in frustration and scrubs his hands over his face. The hairs of his brows are askew when he looks up. It makes him look so young. Harry’s never felt the near-decade between them as strongly as he does right now, staring at the twenty-six year old  _dream_  in front of him.

Zayn’s eyes aren’t just wet anymore, Harry realises: he’s actively crying, fat tears tracing lines down his cheeks. “I thought I had something  _final_. Nothing was perfect and it was hard work sometimes but it was okay. It was good.”

“Okay. Why is this my fault?”

“You came into my life like a fucking freight train, just knocking me over with your… your charm and your brilliance and your fucking… god, do you know how you  _look_? And I just… I realised, tonight, that I needed to… see you.”

“Why?” Harry feels like he’s literally pulling teeth, strong arming each additional piece of information as if Zayn is reluctant to share it.

“Because you’re all of the best parts of a relationship. You’re the good times- the funny, the sexy, the romantic. What I had with Julienne was real. It was good _and_ it was bad and there’s no hiding it sometimes. It took  _work_  and it has taken two years of my life. It was  _real_  and you… aren’t.”

“So then propose to her,” Harry says, heart breaking as he says it, though part of him wants to cling desperately to the past tense Zayn is using. “Do it.”

“I can’t. We broke up after Passy.”

 _Don’t be selfish, don’t be that guy,_  Harry tells himself. “Get back together.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Why?”

“Because… because you said ‘hi’.”

There’s silence around them for a moment, both of them breathing hard as if their conversation was had while running a marathon.

“It’s my best opening line,” Harry finally says, folding his hands in his robe pockets to keep them from reaching out for Zayn. He doesn’t know if they’re at that point yet.

Zayn rolls his eyes but there’s a smile on his lips Harry can see even in profile. It’s a smile that fills Harry with hope.

“Hey,” he says, getting Zayn to look over at him. “Hi.”

There’s a hint of Zayn’s tooth visible where he bites down on his lip and his blinking slows, his posture relaxing. “Hi,” he answers after a moment, the word coming out around a sigh.

“Why are you mad at me?”

“I’m mad because… because you make it all seem so easy and you make me want you.”

“It can be easy.”

“That’s naïve.”

“You’re younger than me!”

“But how many serious relationships have you been in that were easy?”

“All of them,” Harry answers honestly. At Zayn’s raised eyebrow, he relents. “And they all ended because I was naïve.”

“I want you,” Zayn admits again. “And that’s scary because… with how great you’ve made everything seem, I can’t help but think that the bad stuff is going to be really, really bad.”

“You can call all my exes- you already know two of them,” Harry offers, wishing he had his mobile on him so he could hand it over and really make it dramatic. “They’ll tell you all of my worst habits. Or call my manager - he's got stories upon stories.”

Zayn shakes his head. “I don’t want the cheat sheet. I want to learn all of your quirks and buttons myself.”

Harry blinks away a tear and closes the space between them, his arms coming up and circling Zayn’s trim waist as if of their own accord. “I want all of that.”

“I don’t ever want to hear you say ‘hi’ again,” Zayn warns, leaning his slight weight on Harry’s arms and patting as his chest. “That one word has changed everything in my life.”

Harry laughs and shuffles his feet, adjusting his stance. “I’ll try to switch up my greetings,” he promises.

“Yeah, maybe go with ‘hello’ for a bit.”

“I’ve wanted to kiss you for nearly a year,” Harry says, licking his lips and watching as Zayn’s eyes track the movement. “But I’ve been waiting for you to let me.”

“I would have, that first night,” Zayn admits, blinking his eyes slowly. “It would have been so wrong and would have changed this whole thing but… I’ve thought about it since.”

“You thought about me?” Harry asks, pulling him closer so they’re pressed together from their stomachs to their knees. “Before Passy, I mean.”

“Since I put you in that cab.”

Harry rubs his nose along the stubble on Zayn’s cheeks. He smells like sugar and vodka, and Harry realises what he had smelled before was just what Zayn had been drinking- something sweet- to build up his nerve. He’s tiny in Harry’s arms, the bumps of his spine pronounced through his shirt. The first order of business in Harry’s mind is finally learning what the inside of his mouth tastes like. The second is getting him to eat something.

“Let me?” he asks in Zayn’s ear, his lips only  _just_  grazing skin.

“If you don’t kiss me right now I’ll-“

He doesn’t get to finish the sentence because Harry puts one hand on Zayn’s neck, fingers cupping his jaw, and tilts his face up at the perfect angle for their lips to finally  _finally_  meet.

 

 

 

**[May (again) – Rome]**

“I just didn’t think the buildings would be so… white,” Zayn says, a frown turning down the corners of his perfectly pink mouth.

Harry resists the urge to pull him in for a kiss, respecting the strangers around them enough that he can hold off on the PDA. They’re in a very, very long queue for the Colosseum and Zayn’s been bitching quietly for fifteen minutes straight about how the entire city of Rome looks ‘ _too clean to be this old_ ’.

“There’s nothing wrong with a city cleaning up their historic sites. Tourists don’t come because they think the buildings will ‘look old’. They come because of the _significance_ ,” Harry points out. Zayn smiles at him, his sunnies blacking out his eyes. Harry hooks his fingers around one of Zayn’s belt loops and tugs him closer. “You’re a snob, baby.”

“I’m a snob because I want things to be dirtier?”

Harry nods. “You’re a snob about dirt. A dirt snob.”

Zayn snorts, his glasses falling down his nose after he crinkles it. “You’re silly.”

“ _You_ are,” Harry argues like a toddler, dipping down for a quick peck. The strangers around them can deal with that, he reasons. “Hey,” he says, tugging at his jeans again so Zayn tilts his head back. He pushes Zayn’s glasses up into his dark hair, wanting to see the sparkling hazel of his eyes. “We’ve been together nearly a year.”

“Couple days from it, yeah.”

“How great have I been?”

Zayn laughs. “You’ve been wonderful, babe. Absolutely fantastic.”

“And Bisou?”

“Well, I’m missing her more than I’ve ever missed you,” he says in deadpan. “I think that says a lot.”

Harry frowns.

“Baby,” Zayn says, kneading at Harry’s arms as they shuffle forward in line. “I’m happy we’ve made it a year.”

“I’ve been thinking of letting the apartment go.”

“No,” Zayn pouts, squeezing tighter. “That’s Bisou’s home.”

“I think she’ll enjoy England.”

“It’s cold,” Zayn points out.

“Well, I’ve been missing mum and Gems. And I miss you when you’re not over.”

“I’ve got work.”

“I know,” Harry assures him, breaking away from Zayn as a group ahead of them goes inside and they move up closer to the front of the line. “I just find myself wanting to be in England more and more, lately.”

“Yeah, why’s that?” Zayn teases with a smirk. The sun is strong today, enough that Zayn’s eyes are nearly closed so his thick lashes can act as sun shade. He’s so beautiful.

“You,” Harry answers honestly. “I love getting to take you places, love seeing your terrified plane faces-“

“-shut up-“

“But I want to see you more often than the occasional trip and every couple of weekends.”

“Me too,” Zayn assures him. “I miss you all the time.”

“Let’s move in together,” Harry suggests, pulling Zayn closer again so he can get his hands on Zayn’s waist. He’s put on weight over the past year- courtesy of Harry’s mothering tendencies, he thinks- and he feels good, solid, in Harry’s hold.

“Been waiting this whole trip for you to ask me,” Zayn snarks, pushing in for another quick kiss before they’re being asked for their tickets and are making their way into the structure for a brief respite from the heat of the direct sun.

“Is that you saying ‘yes’?” Harry asks, blinking to adjust his eyes to the sudden dark.

“Like I could ever turn you down,” Zayn assures.

“Baby,” Harry pouts. He wants to hear him say it.

Zayn rolls his eyes but his smile is sweet. “I love you very much, Styles. I want to move in with you. Your London place?”

Harry shrugs. “I was thinking we could move just away from the city a bit. Get a little bit of land.”

“You want goats,” Zayn deduces. Harry nods and they both laugh. “I wanna have goats with you, Harry,” he confirms. “And I think we should start talking about children.”

“Yes,” Harry says immediately.

“We need to talk it all out first,” Zayn cautions.

“Yes, I want to have kids with you. How ever we decide to do it: I want that.”

Zayn pulls him a bit out of the way of the other visitors to the Colosseum. “That’s not a conversation,” he warns, though his face is lit up like the paintings of angels they’ve been staring at the past week of their trip. He tugs at Harry’s shirt collar to pull him closer.

“You know this means marriage is the next big thing,” Harry notes between kisses.

Zayn groans, closing his eyes and licking into Harry’s mouth when they kiss again. “You bite your tongue, Styles,” he warns. “Or I’m going to skip this tour and drag you back to the hotel room.”

Harry pretends to think about it. “We can buy new tickets for tomorrow,” he offers.

Zayn smirks and shakes his head. “We’re already here,” he counters. “Sex can wait.” Harry looks at him for a long moment and Zayn seems to think it over. “Yeah, I don’t know why I said that,” he backtracks, grabbing Harry’s hand and pulling him towards the exit. “Let’s go.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you! [Come say hi](http://iamleighbot.tumblr.com/)!


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